


Insecure

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has issues. Sherlock tries to solve them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insecure

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of angst with some porn thrown in for good measure.

_God, yes_ John thought, threw his head back and arched off the bed as Sherlock's mouth closed around his erection. _Damn_ , it felt so good. The heat of Sherlock's mouth, his tongue doing something clever - and John had no idea how he did it, would have to find out some day so he could reciprocate - and Sherlock's fingers fondling his balls and _jesus_ , he was going to come just from this and it was all too much, the sucking and fondling and Sherlock's fingers stroking back and over his hole and -

John jerked away, grabbed Sherlock by his hair and pushed him back, _off - off - off!_ "Stop!"

Sherlock sat back, eyes wide and watering - John wasn't sure if from the blow-job he'd been giving or from the pain of John yanking his hair. "What?" He sounded annoyed.

John scooted up the bed until he was sitting against the headboard, pulled his legs up in front of him, just stopping short of wrapping his arms around his knees. He had to get away. Away from Sherlock, who was still at the other end of the bed, now glaring at him.

"I don't... You did..." John fought for the right words without success, feeling stupid and exposed and irrationally angry because it really shouldn't be so hard.

Sherlock's expression changed, he sneered at John. "So, what? You can fuck me, but I can't even touch your arse?"

John closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not now. Preferably never. He slid off the bed and pulled his pants and trousers back on. Sherlock was watching him, eyes sharp and knowing.

"I'm going for a walk," John said as soon as he was fully dressed. Sherlock didn't answer.

\-----------

They didn't talk about it afterwards. Sherlock could tell that John was grateful for his silence, but it did annoy him. He just wasn't sure if he was more angry with himself for not being able to stop pushing - testing John's boundaries, trying to break through, wanting _more_ \- or with John for being such a stuck-up bastard.

He knew John wanted him, enjoyed getting blown by Sherlock, enjoyed fucking him, and even giving the occasional blow-job himself - although he still had quite a lot to learn about technique, but that was another matter - he just didn't get why John drew the line at being touched ' _there_ '.

There wasn't any reason that Sherlock could fathom for John being so squeamish. He was a doctor, he knew that with proper preparation there was almost no risk to being penetrated. He had to know that Sherlock would be careful. That couldn't be it. And not even his time in the army could have messed him up that completely. From what Sherlock had been able to find out about his history, there was no repressed sexual abuse or trauma that would explain John's behaviour, either. It was a mystery that simply wouldn't be solved without John _talking_. And John refused to talk.

Over the next few days, the atmosphere in the house was strained. They made polite conversation, went about their daily routines, but they barely touched anymore. Sherlock was surprised at how much he missed touching John. He turned the issue over and over in his head, but apart from sitting John down and making him talk about it - which was out of the question, it would just make matters worse - Sherlock couldn't come up with a solution.

The fact that their latest case involved a missing dancer whose partner was worried that he might have gotten too deep into some sort of sadomasochistic sub-scene even Sherlock hadn't yet heard of, didn't help the situation. John - who usually wasn't one to back down from a challenge - categorically refused to accompany him to the club where said dancer had last been seen. In fact, he tried to get out of going out with Sherlock at all, using Sarah or his work at the surgery as flimsy excuses.

John's withdrawal from him alarmed a part of Sherlock that he didn't like to admit existed. Over years he had cultivated his disdain for such fancy notions as 'love' or 'romance', but if he was honest with himself - and he tried to be, at least most of the time - he couldn't deny that he did feel a certain... fondness for John and would be sad to lose him.

The missing dancer turned up alive and well - except for a serious hangover - in the bed of a minor politician (married to someone else, of course) and Sherlock came home that night still riding the high from having solved another case. Maybe John would be in a well-enough mood to listen to him explain his deductions. He missed John's expressions of surprised admiration.

He found John in his usual armchair, staring at the TV with unseeing eyes and a half-empty bottle of whiskey next to him. Not in a very good mood, then.

"Bad day at the surgery?" Sherlock asked in lieu of a greeting and went to make coffee. John would need it if he didn't want to spend the night over the toilet. He palmed the bottle on his way to the kitchen. Before they'd met, John had been skirting the edges of alcoholism and Sherlock was careful to keep him away from the bottle as much as possible. So far, he didn't think John was aware of it.

"I was drinking that," John groused after him.

"I've got something better," Sherlock answered when he came back with two mugs of coffee. John ignored his when he held it out, so Sherlock put it where the bottle had been.

They sat in silence for a while, Sherlock drinking his coffee, John pretending to watch TV.

"It's not that I don't want you, you know," John said suddenly. "And I do realise that I'm being unfair. I just..." he trailed off.

Sherlock wanted to argue, to explain that this wasn't about being fair or unfair. They didn't have to go there, he didn't really care if he got to fuck John or not - well, that wasn't true, strictly speaking. He'd love to fuck John - he just didn't want John to limit himself in this - whatever it was they had. But he could see on John's face that John knew all of that without being told. This wasn't about Sherlock. It was about John and whatever mental block he'd built in his own head. And if he was finally willing to talk, Sherlock was willing to listen.

"I don't want to end up like my sister." John said eventually.

Sherlock blinked. He'd expected a lot of things, but this hadn't been on the list. He took a moment to puzzle it out. "You think that letting me fuck you, will turn you into an alcoholic loser?"

"I know it's irrational. I just can't help it. I never wanted to be-"

"Gay?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You are aware that it's not really a choice. And from what I know about you, I'd rather describe you as 'bi' - if we must recede to using antiquated labels."

"Sherlock." John glared at him.

"Fine." Sherlock put his mug down and faced John. "So, you're afraid of... what exactly?"

John shrugged.

Sherlock took a deep breath, he could do this, he could be patient with John. There had to be a way to work this out. "If you're afraid to disappoint me, I can assure you that it's already too late for that. And don't look at me like that. You know what I mean."

John gave him a weak smile, acknowledging the almost-joke. "I'm more afraid of disappointing myself," he said quietly.

Sherlock smiled. "Well, if that's all, I can take care of that."

John raised his eyebrows and looked at him - really looked at him - for the first time in days. "I'm sorry?"

"You're not turning into an alcoholic, John, I'm taking care of that already. And letting me touch you - letting me fuck you - won't turn you into a loser."

"Until you get tired of me," John muttered.

It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. "I'm not going to get tired of you."

John's laugh sounded brittle. He waved a hand to indicate the apartment. "I've been living with you for the past six months, Sherlock. You get tired of everything and everybody. It's part of who you are."

The way John said it, as if stating a simple fact - as if he'd already accepted being dismissed at some point - hurt Sherlock more than if he'd been dealt a physical blow. He'd never even considered that John would see himself as just a passing fancy. It appeared that John hadn't even noticed what he did to Sherlock, how Sherlock had been changing his life, adapting it to include John, almost to the point that he'd frightened himself for his need to keep John close.

Ignoring his pride, he slid off the sofa to kneel in front of John's armchair and took one of John's hands between his. He knew he needed to do this right, needed to make John understand, or he would lose him right here, right now.

"John," he said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could, "I'm not going to get tired of you. You're not-" he paused, searching for the right words, "You're not ordinary, John. Not replaceable."

John shook his head, a sad smile on his lips.

"John, there are few things in my life that I cannot live without. My occupation, my music. I thought they were all I needed. Until I met you."

"You're just saying that to get me into bed." John joked weakly.

Sherlock smiled. "Of course I am. Is it working?"

John leaned forward, pressed a brief kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Let me think about it."

\-----

"Oh, god. Sherlock." John pressed his face into the pillow, curled his hands into fists around the bedsheets and stuck his arse up into the air. He could feel Sherlock's answering smile against his skin.

"I know I'm good, but I doubt I can match God."

"Shut up and keep doing whatever it is you're doing." Even to his own ears his voiced sounded strained.

"As you wish," Sherlock said and went back to breaking John apart with his tongue.


End file.
